


Wherever you stray I follow

by osheffields



Series: In another life... [2]
Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osheffields/pseuds/osheffields
Summary: A modern AU of Sophie & Benedict. Sophie is down on her luck, Benedict can't help but come to her rescue.
Relationships: Sophie Beckett/Benedict Bridgerton
Series: In another life... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196639
Comments: 13
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

All things considered, Sophie Beckett had had worse days. Sure, her shitty little flat had flooded and her sleazy landlord had lecherously suggested she stay with him until the leak got fixed (which, judging by the speed _anything_ in her flat got fixed, would be **never** ). And sure, the tube had stopped working and the minute she decided to walk instead, the heavens had opened up and poured down on her, soaking her to the bone. And when she’d arrived late for her shift at the cafe, her boss had made thinly veiled threats to sack her if she stepped as much as a toe out of line.

But Sophie had, in fact, had worse days. The ages of 14 to 22 had been her worse days when she was, for all intents and purposes, Araminta’s slave. No, she corrected herself. Araminta’s _assistant_ was the official term her step-mother had liked to use for the job of doing everything from organizing Araminta and Rosamund’s calendars to scrubbing their floors. 

It had been several years since she’d had an order barked at her or dirty clothes and shoes thrown at her head with a demand to clean them. She would take any of the things that had happened to her today, tenfold, over going back to Araminta’s house. 

Araminta had screamed at her that she’d never survive out there, the day she left. Sophie saw it as a personal challenge that she did. Just to prove her wrong. 

Besides, she thought, things were already looking up. The cafe was emptying out for the night, meaning it was nearly time for her to go home, her uniform was mostly dry already (though her hair was still a mess of frizzy, humid curls) and the man of her dreams was sitting at his usual table. 

Like he could hear her thoughts, he looked up at her and smiled. 

The kettle Sophie was holding clattered to the ground. 

Her eyes went wide and she ducked down behind the counter. What an _idiot,_ she chastises herself. She takes her time inspecting the kettle. It was made of metal so it didn’t even have a dent and it was mostly empty. She takes her time down there, on her haunches, composing herself.

“You alright down there?”

_Shit._ She looks up and is met with his beautiful eyes. He’s leaning over the counter looking at her with concern but also with a tiny, knowing smile, like he knows he’s the cause of her clumsiness. 

“Yes,” she replies, a little breathless, and rights herself. “Just...dropped the kettle,” she finishes lamely. He sits down at the bar and makes himself comfortable, deviating from his usual seat by the window.

“Let me...” she wracks her brain for something to do other than just standing there staring at him like an idiot. “Get you more tea.” 

And if she flees to the opposite side of the coffee bar, its all she can do (for probably the umpteenth time that month) to not lose her shit in front of Benedict Bridgerton. 

Benedict had walked into the cafe one rainy evening just as it was about to close, he was dripping wet and was already wracked with a cough and once Sophie had gathered her wits, she placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him before he even had to ask. 

He’d looked up at her from where he sat, up into her eyes and she had looked into his and had held her breath for what seemed like an eternity. 

“Thanks for that,” he’d said, casually. And just like that, she could breathe again. 

One would have to live under a rock to not know who Benedict Bridgerton was. At least if you lived in London and moved in any significant social circles. The Bridgertons were basically celebrities, after all -No. They were basically royalty. They were wealthy, titled and good-looking -and there was a veritable ton of them. They dominated public society across the country. Anthony Bridgerton, the eldest, was known for being a ruthless barrister turned MP. Colin Bridgerton owned a renowned book publishing house. Daphne Bridgerton had married a duke. And Eloise Bridgerton was an avid fighter for every cause of social justice she could get her hands on; Sophie liked her best. She followed her on Instagram.

Benedict Bridgerton, the second eldest, was an artist. Sure, he’d done the Cambridge thing and studied law like his brother but after, he’d chosen art. He painted and sketched and was quite renowned as a photographer. It’s how he ended up meeting and then dating that French fashion designer he’d once been with. Sophie wasn’t stalking him! It was more or less all public knowledge. All you had to do was merely glance at a copy of the Daily Mail while waiting in line at Tesco to know any of this. Not to mention the Whistledown blog that seemed to know every last move any of the Bridgertons made. 

So alright, Sophie Beckett maybe knew entirely too much about the Bridgertons. Sophie, the cafe waitress however, knew only what Benedict shared with her the few times he’d make friendly chit-chat with her while she poured his tea or coffee: He was an artist, he had a lot of siblings, he really needed to call his little sister Eloise back, he was thinking about adopting a cat, and, for reasons unknown to her, he very much wanted to take a picture of Sophie. That last bit is the source of many of Sophie’s great anxieties. 

“Your hair looks particularly lovely tonight,” he says to her when she comes back with his tea. Milk, no sugar, just as he liked it. She gives him a mildly sour look. 

“I got caught in the rain, it’s all frizzy. So I’m assuming you’re taking the piss.”

He laughs and sips his tea. 

“No I mean it, the way it catches the light,” he gestures around her head with the hand that’s not holding the tea cup. “It looks like a halo.” 

“That is a very flattering way to describe my bird’s nest.”

“Let me take a picture of you.” 

Sophie freezes. 

“No.”

“When will you stop saying no?”

“When you stop asking.”

She normally wouldn’t talk to anyone so boldly, but Benedict took everything she said with good spirits. She always found herself being honest with him.

“I will sketch you then.”

“I’ll run away.”

He grins a crooked grin and looks up at her through his lashes.

“I could do it from memory.” 

She swallows the lump in her throat. She has the distinct suspicion, as she’s had for many weeks now, that Benedict is flirting with her. Which would be a disaster for too many reasons to count. 

“Why do you think I keep coming here?” He asks her when she says nothing.

“I thought it was my excellent tea.” 

“It’s to try to convince you to be my muse.”

The sound that escapes her mouth is a strangled, surprised little laugh.

“Do artists still have muses?” She asks.

“I do,” he replies, with a little bit of a far off look in his eyes. He refocuses on her. “Let me sketch you, photograph you. Whatever you prefer. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.” 

She looks away, abashed. She wants to say yes. God, she wants to so badly. Images flash in her mind of what having Benedict’s gaze on her for hours on end would be like. His blue eyes focused on nothing but her while he sketches her likeness. If the scenes she conjures up have her wearing nothing but a big blue diamond necklace while she and Benedict are aboard a certain doomed boat...well...she’ll just blame it on her fondness for movies and Leo DiCaprio. 

But she’s scared, beyond all logic, that if she lets him linger too long or if he somehow looks at a picture of her too long he’ll discover all her secrets. It’s all nonsense. He’s known her for months and he hasn’t discovered a single one. But she can’t help herself.

She shakes her head.

“I think I’m rather shy.”

“No one has to see it. It would just be for me.” 

She flushes. She feels as if the temperature has risen by about twenty degrees and for a moment she wonders if she left the stove on.

“That sounds kind of...” 

“Not for anything weird!” He defends. “You just have...beautiful features. I can’t shake the feeling that they look familiar. Like I’ve seen you before.” 

She turns around hurriedly, checking that stove, just in case.

“You’ve seen me a lot since the first time you came in here. You’re here nearly every week.” She says with her back towards him.

“I mean from before then.”

“Well that’s impossible, isn’t it?” She says turning around and busying herself with wiping down the counter. “Where would a Bridgerton meet someone like me?” 

He cuts his eyes towards her sharply. They’d never discussed who he was, but surely he assumed that she knew. When she chances a glance at him he looks almost disappointed.

“London is a big city,” he says with a shrug. “I could’ve passed you on the street; seen you on the tube.”

“You take the tube?” She asks, raising a brow.

“Of course I do!” He looks offended that she would assume otherwise.

“Did you take it here tonight?”

“Well, no, but-”

“I see.” 

“I’m not a snob!” He says, getting testy. “You are a perfectly respectable, and attractive young woman. I’m a normal man who...takes the tube and does his own shopping and goes to cafes. Why shouldn’t I have noticed you?”

“I’m not saying anything,” she reminds him.

Benedict huffs, the conversation having gotten away from him. He sits quietly while he watches her efficiently tidy the cafe up. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something about Sophie. That he knew her somehow, that they were connected or maybe meant to have met. He knows how it sounds. Colin had once laughed in his face when he’d asked if he believed in destiny and he’d quickly dropped the subject, never to be touched again. But it didn’t mean he’d desisted of the idea that Sophie had a pull on him but maybe it was just his mind wanting to put her image to paper somehow. She _was_ beautiful. Maybe the fact that she resisted him drawing or photographing her only made him dig his heels in more. A part of him thinks that if he watches her closely enough to sketch her, concentrates enough, he’ll be able to figure out what it is about her that won’t let him go. 

It was such a strange thing. He hadn’t felt it in years...not since _her._ And now here he was again. Except this time the woman in question wasn’t an illusion. She wouldn’t disappear into thin air, never to be seen again, so he’d only have his fuzzy memories to keep him afloat. Sophie was there, every time he came into this little cafe, with big green eyes and a sweet smile and he wanted to keep it forever, immortalize it somehow because maybe he was afraid she would disappear too at the drop of a hat. 

He says his goodbyes to Sophie rather anti-climatically and exits the cafe when he's done with his tea. He didn’t want to push her if she was uncomfortable. It wasn’t her fault that he’d once met a woman who had seemed to know his very soul and then she’d vanished without a trace. There was no reason she should pay for his own insecurities. Plus, he loathed to be one of those men that made young women being paid to serve them feel uncomfortable. It was best to say good night to her.

When Sophie has locked the front doors of the cafe and she turns, she stops dead in her tracks, not expecting the sight before her. 

“You caught me,” Benedict says sheepishly. She wonders if he means that he was waiting for her or if he’s referring to the cigarette between his fingers. “I keep trying to quit but I get stressed sometimes.” 

She stares at him for a bit, taking him in in the moonlight. He really was the most handsome man she’s ever seen. 

“You’re an artist.” She says, wrapping her cardigan around her a little more tightly and walking towards him. “Isn’t it basically a requirement to chain smoke and constantly be surrounded by topless women?”

“Where on earth are you getting your information from?” A grin is playing on his lips. He drops the cigarette and stubs it.

She shrugs, “French films, I suppose.” 

He chuckles and then looks around at the dark and empty street. 

“Let me drive you home,” he offers. Sophie is shaking her head before he’s even finished suggesting it. 

“No, thank you.” 

“It’s well past midnight, I can’t in good conscience let you walk to the tube station at this hour.”

“I do it all the time and I’m still alive.” 

“But tonight you have an alternative. Please. I’ll worry all night if you wander off alone. Probably smoke the rest of the pack,” he shakes the pack of cigarettes to emphasize his point. 

Sophie shifts from foot to foot for several minutes and finally relents. He guides her over to his car which is sleek and all black and although it doesn’t look flashy or sporty like the type of thing wealthy men his age would probably drive, she had a feeling it cost more money than Sophie had ever seen in her entire life.

“Where do you live?”

She freezes at his question, and starts to realize the problem she’d gotten herself into but by this point she was already buckled in in his passenger seat. Good question, she thinks. Her flat is flooded; all her worldly possessions that weren’t currently in her handbag (which granted, hadn’t been much to begin with) were soaked and ruined and floating somewhere in the one room rectangle she paid most of her meager salary to rent. She had, truly, nowhere to go. 

“I...well...” she ponders for a moment and then rattles off an address to him, just a few streets away, hoping she can make a quick getaway before he realizes where he’s left her. Not five minutes later, she realizes she had too high of hopes. 

“This,” Benedict starts as he looks up at the building. Sophie is trying desperately to open the door but she can’t for the life of her figure out how it works. Damn him and his posh car. “is a hostel.”

“Yes,” she says with a sigh, giving up on the door.

“You live in a hostel?” She _had_ lived in that hostel, years before, when she first ran away from Araminta’s house. She figured a few more nights there while she figured out what to do about her flat wouldn’t kill her. 

“Well no but my flat flooded this morning so I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go. I’m just going to get a room here for the night.”

“Sophie that’s mad, come and stay with me.” She turns to look at him and her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. 

“What?” 

“I have plenty of space.” 

“I can’t."

"Why not?"

"It’s....inappropriate,” she finishes lamely. 

Benedict scoffs. “What is this? The 1800s? I promise you, your virtue will be quite safe with me.” 

Sophie blushes all the way to the tips of her ears and she thanks the darkness of the car that he can’t see it. It wasn’t that she was worried about whatever Benedict was thinking. She was worried about other, more pressing, matters. At the cafe, she could escape him. He would eventually leave and not show up for several days or her shift would be over and she would sneak out the back door before he even noticed she was gone. What was she expected to do staying under the same roof as him? 

“I don’t want you to trouble yourself with me.”

“It’s no trouble. You have nowhere to go and I have a spare room. It’s a logical solution.”

“I don’t have _nowhere_ ,” she insists but she knows she’s wrong. “I’m staying here.” 

“At this hostel. Where any number of bad things can happen to you,” he grits through his teeth. She can see him growing inpatient. 

“Have you ever actually _stayed_ in a hostel?” She asks eying him curiously. “And backpacking through Asia with ‘the Cambridge lads’ doesn’t count.”

He glares at her. She feels a small sense of satisfaction that she can push his buttons so easily. She’s trapped in his car, after all, she would take whatever small victories she could get. 

She can feel the jolt the car makes when he puts it in drive. 

“Right, you’re coming with me,” he says and throws the car into a U-turn in the empty street. Sophie can hardly believe what’s happening to her.

“I think this is called kidnapping.” 

“Well, you can report me to the authorities tomorrow, after you’ve had a full night’s sleep in a large and comfortable room.” 

“I am _not_ your responsibility, Mr. Bridgerton,” she says primly. He throws a sour glance her way while he drives.

“I’ve told you a million times to call me Benedict.” 

“That would imply we’re friends. Friends don’t kidnap each other.” 

“I’m doing you a favor!”

“I don’t need a favor! I don’t need saving! I’m a grown woman in the 21st century that can fend for herself. I’ve done it all my life.” 

He glances at her several times, trying to keep his eyes on the road ahead. After a few moments of silence he speaks again, this time a touch softer.

“Who are you, Sophie?” 

The question catches her off guard. 

“Wh-what?” She stutters.

“What do you mean you’ve fended for yourself your whole life?”

“I mean exactly what I said. I’ve always been on my own.” She wasn’t about to tell him her life story but her answer only made him more curious. 

“Surely you have parents. Or some other family.” 

“I don’t, actually.” She supposes that, technically, Araminta and her step-sisters are her family. But they’d never seen her as anything other than a nuisance. An employee. Well, no. Employees got _paid._ All Sophie was was a burden left in Araminta’s care when her father died ten years ago. And before that all she’d had was a man who tolerated her. He never had a kind or loving word to say to her. Or a gesture of affection. Sometimes she felt like a terrible person because she barely grieved her own father when he died. But how could she miss a man that had never really been alive to her? 

Benedict doesn’t say anything the rest of the car ride. 

When they get to his home, she realizes she’s in a part of south London she wouldn’t have expected but the more she thinks about it, the more it starts making sense. The area is trendy and up and coming. With just enough character to not be stuffy and overly posh. It suits Benedict, she thinks. 

She still can hardly believe she’s been roped into staying at his house. It was completely surreal and inappropriate and dangerous for her mental well-being but here she was, eagerly taking in every square inch of his sitting room when he turns on the lights. The place is cozy and well lived in and she can’t help the smile on her face as she pictures him living here. How he has an easel sitting by one of the large windows and he must set his coffee or tea cup right on that little stool next to it while he paints. He has books and sketch pads and pencils strewn about on nearly every surface but it doesn’t look messy. It looks lived in. It looks like organized chaos and she’s itching to pick everything up and inspect it, soaking up every bit of him there is there for her to take in. 

“Let me show you the room.”

He leads her down the corridor and shows her into a bedroom. At the sight of the bed, she suddenly realizes how completely exhausted she is. Staying with Benedict might not be the wisest idea in the long run, but even she had to admit it was far better than whatever she could’ve gotten at the hostel or, God forbid, taking her chances anywhere else and getting murdered in a tube station. 

Benedict clears his throat and starts backing out of the room. 

“I’ll get you...something to sleep in.” 

She nods and when Benedict leaves she looks around the room. It’s nondescript, like any other guest room would be. On the bedside table however, she notices a book. She sits on the edge of the bed and picks it up. It’s an old novel she’s never read but when she lets it fall open in her hands she notices dried flowers pressed between its pages and it makes her smile. 

“Will this work?”

Sophie slams the book shut like she’d been caught robbing the place and just nods stupidly, not even sure at what. A few moments later she realizes Benedict is talking about the shirt he’s holding out to her. She can tell it’s his; she tries not to think too hard about that fact.

“Yeah this is fine, thank you,” she says, taking the shirt in her hands; it’s a plain, navy blue t-shirt that feels unbelievably soft between her fingers. 

“There’s...girly things in the en suite.” He motions towards the other door in the room. “I’m not sure what. Things to wash makeup off and such. Use whatever you want in there.”

Sophie reaches for her handbag that laid discarded on the bed and she clutches it to her. She thinks about why he would have “girly things” in his flat. He must have a girlfriend. This wonderful man that she’d been in love with for entirely too long had a girlfriend and here she was, invading his space. Granted, he’d forced her to invade but that was because he was kind and chivalrous. If she had any self respect she'd bolt out the front door. The last thing she wanted was to be the homeless cafe waitress Benedict Bridgerton had taken pity on as he explained Sophie’s presence in his flat to some fabulous supermodel he was dating. 

“Thanks, I packed my own stuff. It would be rude to use your girlfriend’s things,” she says quietly. Benedict narrows his eyes and has the tiniest, knowing smile on his face.

“They’re my sister, Eloise’s.” He says. “She stays here so often this is practically her room.”

“Oh.” She feels incredibly silly now. “And she’s not coming tonight? I don’t want to put her out.”

“She’s out of town. Besides, she has her own flat. She just likes to come around and be a bother.” He says this with humor and Sophie can see in merely his tone how much he probably actually loves having his sister around. 

“I’ll let you sleep,” Benedict says to her and starts walking out of the room. “Have a good night, Sophie.” 

“Benedict?” She calls out for him. He turns around to face her. “Thank you. For everything.” It was hard for her to admit she needed help; she so often had to solve her problems for herself. It was harder yet to accept said help. She thinks Benedict might see that because he doesn’t push the subject and just smiles earnestly instead. 

“Of course.”

He’s nearly out the door when he turns just ever so slightly. 

“And just so you know,” Sophie can see a more sly smile on his lips forming. “I don't have a girlfriend.” 

He leaves her standing there with his shirt in her hands. 

When she falls asleep that night, which is the moment her head hits the pillow, her dreams aren’t dreams at all. 

They’re memories. 

Of a magical night two years before, when she stole into a ball she had no business being in, and fell in love with a man who could see her very soul. And yet, to her dismay, he couldn’t see her while she was sleeping right next door, and he was dreaming of the very same thing. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here with a flashback to the night our babies met. Also, for my own purposes: I've mixed up the Bridgerton's ages in this story. At this point in the flashback: Anthony is 30, Benedict is 28, Colin is 26, Daphne 24, Eloise, 22 and there's a 5 year gap to Francesca being 17. So on and so forth. In the present, Benedict is 30...Just something to keep in mind. ENJOY!

**...Two years earlier.. **

Sophie rarely had days off. Her life since she cared to remember consisted of running from one place to the other, catering to Rosamund and Araminta’s every whim. She almost missed the days when Posy was still in the house. Sure, it meant one more person’s demands to meet but she could always make an escape saying that she needed to run an errand for her youngest step-sister and Posy would normally come up with something slightly less miserable than whatever chore the other two had planned. Sometimes they’d even go out and actually do something fun. Well, as fun as watching Posy get her hair and nails done could be. But it beat scrubbing toilets. However, Posy had gone off to “travel” after graduating university and Sophie could hardly blame her for running away from Araminta as quickly as her legs could carry her. If Sophie herself could do it, she would. 

As it stood, she couldn’t even afford a train ride out of London, never mind a grand escape from Araminta’s house. Well, she _did_ have some savings. It wasn’t much, but it was stashed away in a meager bank account she dare not even think about, much less touch. It was the little that was left of her spending money when her father had sent her away to boarding school.

Sophie didn’t exactly get paid for being Araminta’s servant but, as she was constantly reminded, she was allowed to sleep and eat and live under Araminta’s roof and that should be payment enough. Her only real payment these days, it seemed, was simply having a few hours to herself to try and relax while Araminta spent increasingly more of her time on harebrained schemes to try to launch Rosamund into the social scene of London -and on a wider scope: the internet. Tonight, for example, they had an invitation to the annual benefit gala hosted by the Bridgertons, one of the most well-known families in London. The only thing that could possibly top an event hosted by the Bridgertons, was an event hosted by the Windsors themselves. But Sophie found it unlikely she could ever procure an invitation like that for them. Finding a way to get Araminta and Rosamund onto the Bridgerton’s guest list had taken weeks and nearly cost her her sanity. Araminta would have her head if she failed to procure an invitation and Sophie only managed it when after calling every friend of a friend of a friend she could think of, she found someone who was in charge of security for the event. Looking exactly like one might expect Rosamund and Araminta to look (meaning like overly spray-tanned, knock-off Kardashians) they had been off to the gala an hour ago, intent on making sure Rosamund appeared in every photo that would be published in society blogs, Instagram accounts and magazines the next day. 

As for Sophie, her night was to consist of a good book, a nice candle, some tea and biscuits and her pajamas. She’d just settled in, she’d taken but one sip of her tea, when her mobile started ringing on the table next to her. She squeezed her eyes shut. There was really only one person who could be calling her right now. 

“Yes?”

“You stupid, stupid girl!” Was the greeting screech on the other end. 

“What’s wrong, Araminta?” Sophie sighs. 

“Your _friend_ that was supposed to put our name on the guest’s list is nowhere to be found!”

Sophie’s blood runs cold. She would be dead by morning. 

“What? Are you sure? Maybe ask for him, his name is Freddy and-”

“I won’t go wandering around _begging_ to be let in like some _plebe!_ ” Sophie wanted to say that if they really thought themselves so far above the rest of the public, why didn’t they already have an invitation? But she bit her tongue. 

“I’m sorry Araminta. It was the best I could do.”

“Your best, as usual, isn’t good enough.”

“Would you like me to come down there? I can see if maybe there’s something I can do-”

“Don’t bother! You’re lucky some of the after parties have already started and Rosamund has _so many_ friends here, we’ll be moving along to one of those.”

“I really am sorry, Araminta.” She was sorry that she had failed because that meant Araminta would be extra mean, cruel and demanding until whenever it was that she got over this incident. Of that she would definitely be sorry.

“Sorry isn’t good enough. You really are a useless little thing. I should have left you in that boarding school Richard sent you to when he didn’t want to deal with you either. But here I thought I was doing the kind thing, taking you in as part of the family.”

Sophie was breathing hard, listening to Araminta wield her cruelty so casually on the other side of the phone. One would think that after years of the same thing, Sophie would be used to the treatment. But she couldn’t help angry tears welling in her eyes. 

“He was right about you,” Araminta goes on getting in her final blows. “he always said you are nothing but a nuisance and he should’ve gotten rid of you when he had the chance.”

Sophie sits for a long time after the call ends, tears streaming down her face while she stares motionless into her candle’s flame. Aside from the cruelty, the mocking and the endless work, Sophie felt so very, truly alone in this world. She had no family left -none that she knew of, anyway. She’d had friends at school but once she graduated she’d lost track of them. She didn’t have time to see them with Araminta’s demanding schedule and soon they stopped inviting her places and later stopped texting all together. She rarely had time to answer anyway. So Araminta overworked her, she called her names and insulted her but the worst thing she’d done by far was cut her off from everything and everyone until Sophie’s world was reduced to nothing but the hell Araminta had made for her. Every single day she plotted to leave. But she was a coward and so every single day she came up with reasons not to. She couldn’t afford it, she had nowhere to go, Araminta would find her and drag her back. But the simple truth was that she was scared. She didn’t know what she’d find outside the walls of this house and at least in here she knew what to expect; as much as she hated it. 

The doorbell cuts through her thoughts and she wipes her tears away to stand and answer it. Surely it couldn’t be Araminta yet; besides they had keys. When she opens the door, she finds a delivery worker. 

“Package for Araminta Gunningworth?” Sophie nods and signs whatever the delivery man hands her and then shuts the door. She stares at the package and reads the sender’s address. It was the name of a very expensive dress boutique in London. Sophie recognizes the name and slaps herself on the forehead. It was Rosamund’s dress for tonight. Well, one of the 5 designer dresses Rosamund had gotten custom fitted for tonight before changing her mind on all of them and going shopping with her friends instead. Sophie must have forgotten to cancel this one. She takes the package into the living room and sets it down on the coffee table and unwraps it. No harm in looking, since Rosamund wasn’t even going to wear it, right? 

Sophie gasps slightly when she sees the dress. It was a beautiful silver gown, with delicate embroidered tulle and organza making it look like it was sparkling of its own, magical, accord. She delicately touched the matching Mask that was also neatly placed in the box. Well, since Rosamund wasn’t even aware this dress still existed, there was little harm in trying it on...right? 

Minutes later, Sophie is twirling in her bedroom in the full ensemble, complete with the shoes the boutique had sent. She’d never worn anything so beautiful. All of her clothes consisted of whatever she had left from her school days and Posy’s hand-me-downs. Rosamund’s hand-me-downs were considered too good for Sophie, despite them beingcloser in size than she and Posy were. 

She sighs and smooths down the dress skirts, just for an excuse to touch the delicate fabric again. If her life had been a little different she might be wearing this to the Bridgerton gala herself. Well, no. Her life would have to be _vastly_ different for her to ever have this. Her father would have had to love her mother after their torrid affair. Her mother would have had to survive giving birth to her. Her father would have had to have loved her. He would have had to never marry Araminta. 

She frowns at her reflection. This was her lot in life, it seemed: being the unwanted daughter of a secretary and her boss, spending the rest of her life waiting on a has-been soap opera star and her social-climbing daughter and, occasionally, wearing a borrowed dress and dreaming her life could be different.

Her mobile starts ringing again and she nearly jumps out of her skin, as if Araminta could see her through the phone wearing something she shouldn’t. 

“Yes?” she didn’t even bother looking at the screen, convinced it would be Araminta. 

“Hello? Sophie? It’s Erin’s cousin, Freddy.” A male voice greets her on the other end. 

“Oh, hello!”

“I got held up with something and I didn’t get here till just now. Is your sister still wanting to get in?”

“Step-sister,” she corrects automatically. “And no, actually. They’ve gone on to an after-party I think.” Too little, too late, she things ruefully. There was no saving her from Araminta’s wrath later. In fact, if she calls right now to tell her, it might only make her angrier. “But thanks for trying.” She adds, she really was impressed with herself to have gotten even this close to an invitation for a Bridgerton event. 

“Are you coming?”

“Me?” She asks, astonished. “No, I could never.”

“Why not? You should. It sounds like fun in there.”

She laughs a little. “My step-mother would have my head if she finds out I went and she didn’t.” 

“Well it’s a masquerade, if you find a mask and get down here she’ll never know. I’ll let you in.”

She’s about to ask _where would I find a mask?_ when she glances up and looks in the mirror. She’s all but ready for the masquerade. Did she dare defy Araminta like this? 

As if in response, her brain plays back the cruel words Araminta had said to her that night, and all the other ones she’d said over the years. She gives her reflection a resolute nod. Oh, she dared. 

* * *

“Would you stop fussing with your mask?” Violet Bridgerton scolds her second oldest son for what seems like the dozenth time that evening. Honestly, she had told him off more than she had Gregory who was barely 14 years old. “And Gregory would you please stop terrorizing your sister?” Well, alright, nearly more than Gregory.  
Benedict sighs petulantly. 

“Why do I even have to wear this? Everyone knows who I am.” 

“It’s a masquerade Benedict,” Daphne replies primly. Benedict glares at his traitorous sister. Not three years ago she would have hated making an appearance at this sort of thing too but ever since she’d become a duchess, she had switched sides. From Anthony, he would expect it. He was always the picture of propriety and _family portrait_ moments -at least when it came to their public image. But from _Daphne_? It was a betrayal he didn’t see coming. Ah well, at least he still had Eloise. 

“ _Why_ do I even have to wear this thing? The glitter is giving me a rash!” As if on cue, Eloise descends the stairs, waving her mask frantically and gesturing to her face which was, indeed, kind of red and puffy. 

Daphne gasps and Francesca descends on her sister with some sort of makeup powder while Eloise complains loudly. Colin is laughing obnoxiously at something he’s watching on his phone while Gregory chases Hyacinth around and all Benedict can do at this point is cross his arms and lean against the staircase, waiting for his absurdly large family to get their proverbial shit together. 

The moment comes a few minutes later, when Anthony enters the foyer with his girlfriend, Kate, on his arm and all the Bridgertons that _didn’t_ give birth to Anthony straighten up like little soldiers in front of their commanding officer. 

This was the first event Anthony would be seen at after announcing he’d run for MP; he couldn’t afford a single hair from a single one of his siblings’ heads out of place. He walks by and gives them each a once over. He stops at Eloise.

“Why are you puffy?”

“It’s the glitter!” 

Kate snorts with laughter and Anthony turns his wild gaze on her.

“Why are you laughing? She’s puffy!” 

“Just let her take the damn mask off!” Benedict groans.

“It’s a masquerade!” 

“Anthony for heaven’s sakes,” Kate rolls her eyes. “Just take it off, Eloise.”

Eloise rips the mask off with a dramatic sigh of relief and a few minutes later, they’re all climbing into several cars that will take them to the gala. Violet and Colin get to wrangle Gregory and Hyacinth, the Bassets ride with Anthony and Kate, and Benedict drives his two remaining sisters. 

Francesca beats Eloise to the front seat and half-way to the gala, the sisters are _still_ sticking their tongues out at each other through the rear view mirror. 

“God, how old are you two?” Benedict asks them. Francesca giggles and shrugs her shoulders. 

“Oy, Ben,” Eloise calls to him from the back seat. He glances at her through the rearview mirror. “What do you say we get there, shake hands with whatever old men are pretending they’re buying your photographs in the auction because they’re ‘good’ -oh don’t give me that look! Like they _really_ want your art and not just a picture of a model’s tits hanging in their office!”

Benedict rolls his eyes.

“Anyway!” Eloise continues, “I say, we leave sometime before I actually _die_ of boredom. A friend of mine just texted about a party in Shoreditch.”

Insults to his art aside, Benedict is interested in the proposal. He also wasn’t looking forward to a stuffy evening with “London’s elite” -whatever that meant. 

“Fine, let’s plan on leaving as soon as the auction is over.” 

“You _,_ ” Eloise says, grinning at him through the mirror. “Are my _favorite_ brother.”

“Mhmm,” he hums with a little smile. He knew that Eloise’s favorite brother changed to whoever could get Eloise what Eloise wanted at any given moment. Last week it had been Gregory after he helped her beat a level of a game on her phone. But Benedict took the compliment. Being the ‘second son’, he didn’t often get to be anyone’s favorite anything. 

“Mum’s going to kill you both,” Francesca interjects. Her eyes widen in horror and she gasps with realization. “Oh, _Anthony_ is going to kill you both.”

“Well, just don’t tell him, blabbermouth.” Benedict says mockingly and reaches over to pinch her cheek. She slaps his hand away. 

“Well, can I go?” 

“No!” Benedict and Eloise say in unison. Francesca huffs. She was _basically_ 18\. In 3 months. She crosses her arms; the victory of winning the front seat feeling insignificant now. There were _no_ advantages to being 17. 

When all the photos of them arriving are taken, the whole hoard of Bridgertons enters the museum where the gala is taking place. 

“Look,” Eloise whispers, tugging on the arm that’s escorting her in. “There are the toilets.”

Benedict looks at her confused. “Do you...have to go?”

“No, you idiot! I mean they’re right by the doors. After the auction is over, I’ll say I have to use the loo and you go bring the car around.” 

“Very well.” 

“No dawdling! Or I’ll just get a taxi and leave you.”

Benedict takes in the scene. Old, wealthy aristocrats and stuffy business men abound. But so did socialites and the occasional social climbing “influencer” that managed to sneak past security. Last year, Anthony had been single. All female eyes had been on him and no one had even looked twice when Benedict and Colin, along with Eloise, had snuck off to the rooftop terrace with several bottles of champagne. Tonight, he could already see a few women eyeing him like prey as he entered the ballroom. He knew what they were after: a dance, a photo op, a night with him, the hopes to catch his eye for more than a few hours. They would take whatever they could get with a Bridgerton in exchange for a mention on _Whistledown_ and a few hundred new followers on their social media accounts. 

He leans down to whisper to his sister, eager already to flee. “I can’t imagine anything that could possibly keep me here.”

* * *

The auction had ended ten minutes ago. Benedict was currently all but bouncing on his feet as he urged Lady Danbury to finish whatever she was saying so he could make his escape. He’d seen Eloise leave the ball room over five minutes ago and he knew his sister. She _would_ leave without him. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Lady D,” he manages to get in when the woman stops for breath. “I think I just saw someone that I have to say hello to.” As far as excuses went, that was pretty terrible but it would have to do. 

“Who could possibly be more important than me?” She asked irreverently. Benedict blinked a few times, trying to come up with an answer. Lady Danbury narrows her eyes. “Is it a girl? I’d understand if it were a girl.”

“It is a girl, yes. A woman, actually. Right over there.” He points vaguely toward the entrance. 

“Fine, go on then. But make sure it’s a _good_ girl. Not one of those fortune hunters. Look at Anthony, he found a good one! Find one like her too.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises and heads for the doors. 

He does several turns around the lobby of the museum and curses. He couldn’t see Eloise anywhere. She had _definitely_ left without him. He was just about to fish his phone out of his pocket to text his sister when movement in what was supposed to be the empty lobby catches his eye. He turns around and sees her. Not Eloise. He sees _her._

A woman in a beautiful silver gown looking at the mere lobby of the museum like it is the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen. The wonder on her masked face makes him look around in wonder too, taking it in for the first time. It truly was well decorated. He hated admitting that his life was so full of luxuries like these that he often took them for granted. That he rarely stopped to take a moment in. He watched the woman in the silver dress look around with the most radiant smile on her face and he felt an inexplicable pull towards her. He watches her peer into the ballroom and hesitate and then, instead, she makes her way up the grand stairs. Benedict follows her. 

“Hello?” he says softly when he’s a few steps behind her, trying not to startle her. She turns to him with a surprised gasp and he can tell she’s beautiful. Most of her face is obscured by an ornate silver mask that matches her dress but he can _tell._ Call it his artist’s eye. 

“The ball is that way,” he says to her and he can see her blushing prettily. He’s already so enraptured by her, he can’t imagine she’d do anything _not_ prettily. 

“I know,” she says with a breathless little voice. “I’m just...not quite ready to go in.”

“Did you just get here?” He frowns. She would have had to. There was no way he wouldn’t have noticed her if she’d been in the ball room for several hours. But it was also strange that she arrived so late, having missed most of the night already.

“Yes.” She replies, giving him a tiny smile. “Were you just leaving?” She asks slyly and he laughs. 

“I was. But I can be persuaded to stay.”

“By me?” She gives an incredulous laugh but she only need ask him and he’ll stay. 

He nods in response. 

“I wouldn’t wish to keep you.” 

“I wish you would.” 

She won’t stop smiling at him and it’s like that pretty smile is pulling him in like a siren’s song and he’s climbing the rest of the stairs until he’s on the same step as her. She gestures toward the rest of the stairs. 

“What’s up there?” 

“M-” he catches himself, an idea forming. She’d given no indication that she had any idea who he was. “Art. The art that was auctioned off tonight. Would you like to see it?”

She nods and he leads the way to the gallery. 

He watches her walk through the gallery, taking in each painting and photograph and reading every single plaque that goes with it. Sometimes she has little comments, or she hums quietly like a piece is trying to tell her something and she understands it. Benedict watches her mostly silently, afraid he’ll break the spell.

“A lot of these are from Benedict Bridgerton,” she notices. He smiles. So she _didn’t_ know who he was. He didn’t know if it was the black mask he wore or if she genuinely had no idea what he looked like. He liked either prospect. 

“Nepotism at its finest, no?” he teases, stepping in next to her. It wasn’t often he had the opportunity for someone to be truly honest with him, give their opinion without some preconceived notion about who he _should_ be because of his name. 

The woman is shaking her head. 

“No, these are very good. I love his photographs. The way he always seems to tell a story with a single picture.”

“Are you a fan?” He asks, smirking. 

“I’ve seen some of his pictures in magazines. They’re always so beautiful. But I admit I don’t know much about art.”

“Art should be about how it makes you feel. And anyone can feel. People who think they _know better_ than others are pretentious.” 

She gazes at him thoughtfully and then hums in agreement, before moving on to some paintings.

“Look at this one. I think there’s something quite sad about it, despite the colors.” 

He glances at the painting she’s talking about and something in his chest tightens. He _had_ been feeling melancholic when he’d painted that, many months ago. He’d been on a trip somewhere beautiful with Colin and Anthony, feeling a peculiar kind of existential dread that his life, unlike that of his brothers, was somewhat meaningless, in the grand scheme of things. That it was empty and that he was lonely. 

“Sad how?” He pries. She shrugs. 

“It makes me think of being lonely. In a sea of people.”

He hadn’t noticed before but he’s breathing faster. He feels like this woman could peel back all the layers of him and look into his very soul if she wanted to. And she had no idea she was doing it. 

“Are _you_ lonely?” He asks her. She bites her lip and slowly casts her eyes up at him, timidly. 

“Not right now.” 

Benedict thinks how he could kiss her in that moment. Both because she was beautiful and because in 20 minutes she’d managed to see more of him than anyone else had before. Was it ridiculous to feel like someone has changed your life irrevocably after just meeting them? It might be; but Benedict knows in that moment that his life will never be the same. He thinks of everything that had aligned for him to be there at that precise moment as she wandered up those stairs and he knows he was destined to have found her. 

Below them, the music crescendos and he holds out his hand.

“Will you dance with me?” 

Her eyes widen behind her mask and Benedict wishes the lights weren’t so dim that he could’t tell what color they were. They might be a dark, mossy green. They might be brown or hazel. It was hard to tell but he needed to know. 

“I don’t know how,” she confesses and Benedict laughs. Not at her; never at her. He laughs with pure joy at the wonder of this moment.

“I’ll teach you.” He grabs her hand and pulls her close. She tries to look at their feet as he guides her but gives her a little tug. “Look at me.” 

She does and his heart soars. The moment is dulled only a little when she steps on his toes some seconds later. 

“Oof.”

“Sorry!” She apologizes but he smiles at her. 

“Don’t think so hard. Just let me guide you and listen to the music.” He leads her into step with the beat of the faint music coming from the ball room. “Do you hear it?”

“Yes,” she responds breathlessly. He can tell she’s still thinking too hard and he tries to distract her. 

“Tell me something about you.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. What’s your favorite color? How old are you? What do you do?”

She laughs. “I hate small talk.”

“I do too. Let’s do big talk: what do I have to do to get you to come home with me?”

She sputters and stops dancing. 

“How about I tell you how old I am instead?” 

He smirks and pulls her in again. “That’ll do. For now.”

“I’m 22. And you?”

“28. Favorite color?” 

She thinks on this for a few moments.

“It’s green.” 

“Why?”

“Why?” Benedict nods and she looks around pensively. She hadn’t stepped on his toes for a while. They were swaying comfortably now. “I supposed because it reminds me of the grass at my boarding school. I have the best memories from my school days.”

“Your best memories are from boarding school?” Benedict thinks back to his own years at Eton when, after Anthony left and before Colin had joined him, he’d been bored and miserable out of his skull, longing to be back home. But maybe that was just a Bridgerton thing. They were rather clannish, after all. 

“Well, it was better than being at home.”

“What was wrong with home?”

She hesitates and then shrugs. When she speaks he knows she’s not telling him the truth. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does.

“I didn’t much like my step-mum.” 

“I hated being at boarding school,” he tells her. “My brothers and I always got into too much trouble. My mother was more lenient.” He watches her smile at the thought. 

“How many brothers do you have?” 

“Three. And four sisters. You can imagine how even if she wanted to, my poor mother just didn’t have the energy to discipline us all.” He can see the moment that she starts putting the pieces together. He wasn’t the only person in the world with nearly a football team’s worth of siblings but he can see her looking at the parts of his face she can see and she pulls back from his arms and stops dancing.

“Are you...a Bridgerton?” 

Benedict sighs. The jig was up. He pulls off his mask; tired of the damn thing hours ago but in her presence he’d liked keeping the mystery going. Her mouth forms into a little “o” of astonishment.

“You’re...you’re Benedict.”

“Number two, as some people call me,” he replied, thinking bitterly to what he’d been called on at least three occasions that very evening. She has her hand to her chest and her cheeks are flushed. 

“All those things I said about the paintings. I...I feel so silly now.” 

“Don’t,” he takes a step towards her but she steps back. “They were honest. They were lovely.” 

“What must you think of me.” Her hands comes up to touch her face and for a moment Benedict thinks she’s going to take off her mask and he’s thrilled but she only presses it closer to her face. As if now that she knows who he is, she’s more determined to hide who she is.

“I think you’re the most beautiful, wonderfully honest woman I’ve ever met. And I think I want to see you again. I think I want to call you tomorrow and take you on a date at the weekend. And most, of all,” he takes a few tentative steps closer to her and this time she doesn’t back away. “I think I want to kiss you right now.” 

“You do?” She asks, surprised and he can’t help but laugh a little, that she might doubt him. He’d been all but falling in love with her for the last hour. 

“Will you let me?” 

Her lips part slightly and he prays she says yes. When she nods once, he closes the distance between them, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. He wastes no time in capturing her lips in a searing kiss. 

The minute their lips meet, his entire center of gravity shifts. He knows how it sounds. He knows there’s no such thing as love at first sight but he can’t help feel like his entire life had been leading up to that very moment. He’d kissed women before, plenty of them, and none of them had set off a chain reaction like this in him. 

Their kiss is slow and heady and he wants to pack 28 years of passion into it because he suddenly realizes he’s gone 28 years missing this very magic she conjured up. When they part and he looks at her, he wants to capture this very moment. What she looks like with her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed and her lips red and swollen from his kisses. He could take her as his muse and he’d never stop creating _true_ works of art in her likeness. 

“Who are you?” He asks her. 

She blinks her eyes open. 

“What?”

“You know who I am. Tell me who you are.”

She takes a deep breath like the question physically pains her.

“I’m no one,” she whispers.

How could she say that when he could so easily see her becoming everything to him? 

“I want to see you,” he reaches for her mask and she steps back. He knows she’s about to protest and say something else that will confuse him but nothing ever comes. Because she’s suddenly looking around her, realizing where they are. 

They were standing next to the balcony of the second floor. They had kissed there, which meant that anyone below might have seen. He follows her eyes down and sure enough, people are lingering about the once-empty lobby. Some making their way home, some very obviously staring at them. One person even snaps a very conspicuous photo of them and she reels back. 

“Do you think...anyone saw us?”

“Kissing you mean? Probably.” 

“What if they post pictures?”

Benedict frowns, “They probably will. You’ll be on the _Whistledown_ page in no time, I presume.” A part of him couldn’t wait. If she wouldn’t tell him who she was, someone on the internet would know. She was obviously someone of some sort of fortune or fame. Her mere dress gave that away. 

“I can’t...” she starts to pace, several feet back from the balcony. “I can’t be on _Whistledown_. I’m not even supposed to be here!”

“What are you talking about?” He asks patiently. 

“I have to go.” She all but bolts for the stairs. He runs after her.

“No, hang on. You have to tell me your name.” 

She doesn’t reply, she keeps running down the hallway until she turns where the grand stair case is. 

“Tell me how to find you tomorrow!” He calls out.

He swears he’s never seen a woman run so fast in heels and by the time he thinks he might catch up with her head start, she’s already descended the stairs. When he reaches the lobby of the museum, most of the gala’s guests are filtering out of the ball room and he loses sight of her in about half a second; she’s swallowed up by the crowd of people. 

He stops running and lets her go. He would find her again. A picture of them kissing would make its way onto _Whistledown_ in a few hours’ time and by the morning someone will have discovered who she is. And then he would go to her. And he wouldn’t let her run away again. 


End file.
